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THE  WASTE  LAND 


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THE  WASTE  LAND 


BY 

T.  S.  ELIOT 


“NAM  Sibyllam  quidem  Cumis  ego  ipse  oculis  meis 
vidi  in  ampulla  pendere,  et  cum  illi  pueri  dicerent: 
'LifivXka.  ri  OiXeiC  j  respondebat  ilia :  airodavelv  OcTlu.” 


NEW  YORK 

HORACE  LIVERIGHT 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
HORACE  LIVERIGHT 


Third  Printing,  August,  1928 


THE  G^TTY  RESEARCH 
INSTITUTE  LIBRARY 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


I.  THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DEAD 


PRIL  is  the  cruellest  month,  breeding 


**•  Lilacs  out  of  the  dead  land,  mixing 
Memory  and  desire,  stirring 
Dull  roots  with  spring  rain. 

Winter  kept  us  warm,  covering 
Earth  in  forgetful  snow,  feeding 
A  little  life  with  dried  tubers. 

Summer  surprised  us,  coming  over  the 
Starnbergersee 

With  a  shower  of  rain;  we  stopped  in  the 
colonnade, 

And  went  on  in  sunlight,  into  the  Hof- 
garten,  io 


[9l 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


And  drank  coffee,  and  talked  for  an  hour. 

Bin  gar  keine  Russin,  stamm’  aus  Litauen, 
echt  deutsch. 

And  when  we  were  children,  staying  at  the 
archduke’s, 

My  cousin’s,  he  took  me  out  on  a  sled, 

And  I  was  frightened.  He  said,  Marie, 

Marie,  hold  on  tight.  And  down  we  went. 

In  the  mountains,  there  you  feel  free. 

I  read,  much  of  the  night,  and  go  south 
in  the  winter. 

What  are  the  roots  that  clutch,  what 
branches  grow 

Out  of  this  stony  rubbish?  Son  of 
man,  20 


[10] 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DEAD 

You  cannot  say,  or  guess,  for  you  know 
only 

A  heap  of  broken  images,  where  the  sun 
beats, 

And  the  dead  tree  gives  no  shelter,  the 
cricket  no  relief, 

And  the  dry  stone  no  sound  of  water.  Only 

There  is  shadow  under  this  red  rock, 

(Come  in  under  the  shadow  of  this  red 
rock), 

And  I  will  show  you  something  different 
from  either 

Your  shadow  at  morning  striding  behind 
you 

Or  your  shadow  at  evening  rising  to  meet 


you  5 


[ii] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


I  will  show  you  fear  in  a  handful  of 
dust.  30 

Frisch  weht  der  Wind 
Der  Heimat  zuy 
Mein  Irisch  Kind , 

Wo  weilest  du? 

“You  gave  me  hyacinths  first  a  year  ago; 

“They  called  me  the  hyacinth  girl.” 

—  Yet  when  we  came  back,  late,  from  the 
Hyacinth  garden, 

Your  arms  full,  and  your  hair  wet,  I 
could  not 

Speak,  and  my  eyes  failed,  I  was  neither 

Living  nor  dead,  and  I  knew  nothing,  40 

Looking  into  the  heart  of  light,  the 
silence. 


[12] 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DEAD 


Od*  und  leer  das  Meer. 

Madame  Sosostris,  famous  clairvoyante, 

Had  a  bad  cold,  nevertheless 

Is  known  to  be  the  wisest  woman  in 
Europe, 

With  a  wicked  pack  of  cards.  Here,  said 
she, 

Is  your  card,  the  drowned  Phoenician 
Sailor, 

(Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes. 
Look! ) 

Here  is  Belladonna,  the  Lady  of  the  Rocks, 

The  lady  of  situations.  50 

Here  is  the  man  with  three  staves,  and 
here  the  Wheel, 

[13] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


And  here  is  the  one-eyed  merchant,  and 
this  card, 

Which  is  blank,  is  something  he  carries  on 
his  back, 

Which  I  am  forbidden  to  see.  I  do  not 
find 

The  Hanged  Man.  Fear  death  by  water. 

I  see  crowds  of  people,  walking  round  in 
a  ring. 

Thank  you.  If  you  see  dear  Mrs.  Equi- 
tone, 

Tell  her  I  bring  the  horoscope  myself: 

One  must  be  so  careful  these  days. 

Unreal  City, 

Under  the  brown  fog  of  a  winter  dawn, 
[i4] 


60 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DEAD 

A  crowd  flowed  over  London  Bridge,  so 
many, 

I  had  not  thought  death  had  undone  so 
many. 

Sighs,  short  and  infrequent,  were  exhaled, 

And  each  man  fixed  his  eyes  before  his  feet. 

Flowed  up  the  hill  and  down  King  William 
Street, 

To  where  Saint  Mary  Woolnoth  kept  the 
hours 

With  a  dead  sound  on  the  final  stroke  of 
nine. 

There  I  saw  one  I  knew,  and  stopped  him, 
crying:  “Stetson! 

“You  who  were  with  me  in  the  ships  at 
Mylae! 

[  i5  ] 


70 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


“That  corpse  you  planted  last  year  in 
your  garden, 

“Has  it  begun  to  sprout?  Will  it  bloom 
this  year? 

“Or  has  the  sudden  frost  disturbed  its 
bed? 

“Oh  keep  the  Dog  far  hence,  that’s  friend 
to  men, 

“Or  with  his  nails  he’ll  dig  it  up  again! 

“You!  hypocrite  lecteur!  — mon  sem- 
blable,  —  mon  frere!  ” 


[  16  ] 


II.  A  GAME  OF  CHESS 


^T\HE  Chair  she  sat  in,  like  a  bur- 
nished  throne, 

Glowed  on  the  marble,  where  the  glass 
Held  up  by  standards  wrought  with 
fruited  vines 

From  which  a  golden  Cupidon  peeped 

OUt  80 

(Another  hid  his  eyes  behind  his  wing) 
Doubled  the  flames  of  sevenbranched 
candelabra 

Reflecting  light  upon  the  table  as 

The  glitter  of  her  jewels  rose  to  meet  it, 

From  satin  cases  poured  in  rich  profusion; 

[17] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


In  vials  of  ivory  and  coloured  glass 
Unstoppered,  lurked  her  strange  synthetic 
perfumes, 

Unguent,  powdered,  or  liquid  —  troubled, 
confused 

And  drowned  the  sense  in  odours;  stirred 
by  the  air 

That  freshened  from  the  window,  these 
ascended  9° 

In  fattening  the  prolonged  candle-flames, 
Flung  their  smoke  into  the  laquearia, 
Stirring  the  pattern  on  the  coffered  ceiling. 
Huge  sea-wood  fed  with  copper 
Burned  green  and  orange,  framed  by  the 
coloured  stone, 

In  which  sad  light  a  carved  dolphin  swam. 

[18] 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS 


Above  the  antique  mantel  was  displayed 
As  though  a  window  gave  upon  the  sylvan 
scene 

The  change  of  Philomel,  by  the  barbarous 
king 

So  rudely  forced  3  yet  there  the  nightin¬ 
gale  100 

Filled  all  the  desert  with  inviolable  voice 
And  still  she  cried,  and  still  the  world 
pursues, 

“Jug  Jug”  to  dirty  ears. 

And  other  withered  stumps  of  time 
Were  told  upon  the  walls;  staring  forms 
Leaned  out,  leaning,  hushing  the  room 
enclosed. 

Footsteps  shuffled  on  the  stair. 

[19] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Under  the  firelight,  under  the  brush,  her 
hair 

Spread  out  in  fiery  points 
Glowed  into  words,  then  would  be  sav¬ 
agely  still.  no 

“My  nerves  are  bad  tonight.  Yes,  bad. 
Stay  with  me. 

“Speak  to  me.  Why  do  you  never  speak? 
Speak. 

“What  are  you  thinking  of?  What  think¬ 
ing?  What? 

“I  never  know  what  you  are  thinking. 
Think.” 

I  think  we  are  in  rats’  alley 

Where  the  dead  men  lost  their  bones. 

[20] 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS 


“What  is  that  noise?” 

The  wind  under  the  door. 
“What  is  that  noise  now?  What  is  the 
wind  doing?” 

Nothing  again  nothing.  120 

“Do 

“You  know  nothing?  Do  you  see  nothing? 

Do  you  remember 
“Nothing?” 

I  remember 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes. 

“Are  you  alive,  or  not?  Is  there  nothing 
in  your  head?  ” 

But 

OOOO  that  Shakespeherian  Rag  — 

It's  so  elegant 

So  intelligent  130 


[21] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


“What  shall  I  do  now?  What  shall 
I  do?  ” 

“I  shall  rush  out  as  I  am,  and  walk  the 
street 

“With  my  hair  down,  so.  What  shall  we 
do  tomorrow? 

“What  shall  we  ever  do?” 

The  hot  water  at  ten. 

And  if  it  rains,  a  closed  car  at  four. 

And  we  shall  play  a  game  of  chess, 

Pressing  lidless  eyes  and  waiting  for  a 
knock  upon  the  door. 

When  LiPs  husband  got  demobbed,  I 


said  — 


[22] 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS 


I  didn’t  mince  my  words,  I  said  to  her 
myself,  140 

Hurry  up  please  its  time 

Now  Albert’s  coming  back,  make  your¬ 
self  a  bit  smart. 

He’ll  want  to  know  what  you  done  with 
that  money  he  gave  you 

To  get  yourself  some  teeth.  He  did,  I  was 
there. 

You  have  them  all  out,  Lil,  and  get  a 
nice  set, 

He  said,  I  swear,  I  can’t  bear  to  look  at  you. 

And  no  more  can’t  I,  I  said,  and  think  of 
poor  Albert, 

He’s  been  in  the  army  four  years,  he 

wants  a  good  time, 

[23] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


And  if  you  dont  give  it  him,  there's  others 
will,  I  said. 

Oh  is  there,  she  said.  Something  o'  that, 
I  said.  150 

Then  I'll  know  who  to  thank,  she  said, 
and  give  me  a  straight  look. 

Hurry  up  please  its  time 

If  you  dont  like  it  you  can  get  on  with  it, 
I  said, 

Others  can  pick  and  choose  if  you  can't. 

But  if  Albert  makes  off,  it  wont  be  for 
lack  of  telling. 

You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  I  said,  to  look 
so  antique. 

(And  her  only  thirty-one.) 

I  can't  help  it,  she  said,  pulling  a  long  face, 
[24] 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS 


It’s  them  pills  I  took,  to  bring  it  off,  she 
said. 

(She’s  had  five  already,  and  nearly  died 
of  young  George.)  160 

The  chemist  said  it  would  be  alright,  but 
I’ve  never  been  the  same. 

You  are  a  proper  fool,  I  said. 

Well,  if  Albert  wont  leave  you  alone, 
there  it  is,  I  said, 

What  you  get  married  for  if  you  dont 
want  children? 

Hurry  up  please  its  time 
Well,  that  Sunday  Albert  was  home,  they 
had  a  hot  gammon, 

And  they  asked  me  in  to  dinner,  to  get 

the  beauty  of  it  hot  — 

[25] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Hurry  up  please  its  time 
Hurry  up  please  its  time 
Goonight  Bill.  Goonight  Lou.  Goonight 
May.  Goonight.  170 

Ta  ta.  Goonight.  Goonight. 

Good  night,  ladies,  good  night,  sweet 
ladies,  good  night,  good  night. 


[26] 


III.  THE  FIRE  SERMON 


F I  "^HE  river’s  tent  is  broken:  the  last 
fingers  of  leaf 

Clutch  and  sink  into  the  wet  bank.  The 
wind 

Crosses  the  brown  land,  unheard.  The 
nymphs  are  departed. 

Sweet  Thames,  run  softly,  till  I  end  my 
song. 

The  river  bears  no  empty  bottles,  sand¬ 
wich  papers, 

Silk  handkerchiefs,  cardboard  boxes,  ciga¬ 
rette  ends 

Or  other  testimony  of  summer  nights. 

The  nymphs  are  departed. 

[  27  ] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


And  their  friends,  the  loitering  heirs  of 
city  directors  5  180 

Departed,  have  left  no  addresses. 

By  the  waters  of  Leman  I  sat  down  and 
wept  .  .  . 

Sweet  Thames,  run  softly  till  I  end  my 
song, 

Sweet  Thames,  run  softly,  for  I  speak  not 
loud  or  long. 

But  at  my  back  in  a  cold  blast  I  hear 

The  rattle  of  the  bones,  and  chuckle 
spread  from  ear  to  ear. 

A  rat  crept  softly  through  the  vegetation 

Dragging  its  slimy  belly  on  the  bank 

While  I  was  fishing  in  the  dull  canal 
[28] 


THE  FIRE  SERMON 


On  a  winter  evening  round  behind  the 
gashouse.  190 

Musing  upon  the  king  my  brother’s 
wreck 

And  on  the  king  my  father’s  death  before 
him. 

White  bodies  naked  on  the  low  damp 
ground 

And  bones  cast  in  a  little  low  dry  garret, 

Rattled  by  the  rat’s  foot  only,  year  to  year. 

But  at  my  back  from  time  to  time  I  hear 

The  sound  of  horns  and  motors,  which 
shall  bring 

Sweeney  to  Mrs.  Porter  in  the  spring. 

O  the  moon  shone  bright  on  Mrs.  Porter 

And  on  her  daughter 

[29] 


200 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


They  wash  their  feet  in  soda  water 
Et  O  ces  voix  d’enfants ,  chantant  dans  la 
coupolel 

Twit  twit  twit 
Jug  Jug  jug  jug  jug  jug 

So  rudely  forc’d. 

Tereu 

Unreal  City 

Under  the  brown  fog  of  a  winter  noon 

Mr.  Eugenides,  the  Smyrna  merchant 

Unshaven,  with  a  pocket  full  of  currants  210 

C.i.f.  London:  documents  at  sight, 

Asked  me  in  demotic  French 

To  luncheon  at  the  Cannon  Street  Hotel 
[30] 


THE  FIRE  SERMON 


Followed  by  a  weekend  at  the  Metropole. 

At  the  violet  hour,  when  the  eyes  and  back 
Turn  upward  from  the  desk,  when  the 
human  engine  waits 
Like  a  taxi  throbbing  waiting, 

I  Tiresias,  though  blind,  throbbing  be¬ 
tween  two  lives, 

Old  man  with  wrinkled  female  breasts, 
can  see 

At  the  violet  hour,  the  evening  hour  that 
strives  220 

Homeward,  and  brings  the  sailor  home 
from  sea, 

The  typist  home  at  teatime,  clears  her 

breakfast,  lights 

[  3i  ] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Her  stove,  and  lays  out  food  in  tins. 

Out  of  the  window  perilously  spread 
Her  drying  combinations  touched  by  the 
sun’s  last  rays, 

On  the  divan  are  piled  (at  night  her  bed) 
Stockings,  slippers,  camisoles,  and  stays. 

I  Tiresias,  old  man  with  wrinkled  dugs 
Perceived  the  scene,  and  foretold  the  rest  — 
I  too  awaited  the  expected  guest.  230 

He,  the  young  man  carbuncular,  arrives, 

A  small  house  agent’s  clerk,  with  one  bold 
stare, 

One  of  the  low  on  whom  assurance  sits 

As  a  silk  hat  on  a  Bradford  millionaire. 

The  time  is  now  propitious,  as  he  guesses, 

The  meal  is  ended,  she  is  bored  and  tired, 
[  32  ] 


THE  FIRE  SERMON 


Endeavours  to  engage  her  in  caresses 
Which  still  are  unreproved,  if  undesired. 
Flushed  and  decided,  he  assaults  at  once  5 
Exploring  hands  encounter  no  defence  ;  240 

His  vanity  requires  no  response, 

And  makes  a  welcome  of  indifference. 
(And  I  Tiresias  have  foresuffered  all 
Enacted  on  this  same  divan  or  bed  5 
I  who  have  sat  by  Thebes  below  the  wall 
And  walked  among  the  lowest  of  the  dead.) 
Bestows  one  final  patronising  kiss, 

And  gropes  his  way,  finding  the  stairs 
unlit  .  .  . 

She  turns  and  looks  a  moment  in  the  glass, 

Hardly  aware  of  her  departed  lover; 

[  33  ] 


250 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Her  brain  allows  one  half-formed  thought 
to  pass: 

“Well,  now  that’s  done:  and  I’m  glad  it’s 
over.” 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly  and 

Paces  about  her  room  again,  alone, 

She  smooths  her  hair  with  automatic  hand, 

And  puts  a  record  on  the  gramophone. 

“This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the 
waters” 

And  along  the  Strand,  up  Queen  Victoria 
Street. 

O  City  city,  I  can  sometimes  hear 

Beside  a  public  bar  in  Lower  Thames 
Street,  260 


[34] 


THE  FIRE  SERMON 


The  pleasant  whining  of  a  mandoline 
And  a  clatter  and  a  chatter  from  within 
Where  fishermen  lounge  at  noon:  where  the 
walls 

Of  Magnus  Martyr  hold 
Inexplicable  splendour  of  Ionian  white 
and  gold. 

The  river  sweats 

Oil  and  tar 

The  barges  drift 

With  the  turning  tide 

Red  sails  270 

Wide 

To  leeward,  swing  on  the  heavy  spar. 

The  barges  wash 


[35] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Drifting  logs 

Down  Greenwich  reach 

Past  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

Weialala  leia 

Wallala  leialala 
Elizabeth  and  Leicester 
Beating  oars 
The  stern  was  formed 
A  gilded  shell 
Red  and  gold 
The  brisk  swell 
Rippled  both  shores 
Southwest  wind 
Carried  down  stream 
The  peal  of  bells 
White  towers 

[36] 


280 


THE  FIRE  SERMON 

Weialala  leia  290 

Wallala  leialala 

“Trams  and  dusty  trees. 

Highbury  bore  me.  Richmond  and  Kew 
Undid  me.  By  Richmond  I  raised  my 
knees 

Supine  on  the  floor  of  a  narrow  canoe.” 

“My  feet  are  at  Moorgate,  and  my  heart 
Under  my  feet.  After  the  event 
He  wept.  He  promised  ‘a  new  start.’ 

I  made  no  comment.  What  should  I 
resent?” 

“On  Margate  Sands.  300 

I  can  connect 


Nothing  with  nothing. 

[37] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


The  broken  fingernails  of  dirty  hands. 

My  people  humble  people  who  expect 
Nothing.” 

la  la 

To  Carthage  then  I  came 

Burning  burning  burning  burning 
O  Lord  Thou  pluckest  me  out 
O  Lord  Thou  pluckest  310 

burning 


[38  ] 


IV.  DEATH  BY  WATER 


T^HLEBAS  the  Phoenician,  a  fortnight 
dead, 

Forgot  the  cry  of  gulls,  and  the  deep  sea 
swell 

And  the  profit  and  loss. 

A  current  under  sea 
Picked  his  bones  in  whispers.  As  he  rose 
and  fell 

He  passed  the  stages  of  his  age  and  youth 
Entering  the  whirlpool. 

Gentile  or  Jew 

O  you  who  turn  the  wheel  and  look  to 

windward,  320 

Consider  Phlebas,  who  was  once  handsome 

and  tall  as  you. 

[39] 


V.  WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 
FTER  the  torchlight  red  on  sweaty 


-*•  faces 

After  the  frosty  silence  in  the  gardens 
After  the  agony  in  stony  places 
The  shouting  and  the  crying 
Prison  and  palace  and  reverberation 
Of  thunder  of  spring  over  distant 
mountains 

He  who  was  living  is  now  dead 
We  who  were  living  are  now  dying 
With  a  little  patience  330 

Here  is  no  water  but  only  rock 
Rock  and  no  water  and  the  sandy  road 


[40] 


WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 


The  road  winding  above  among  the 
mountains 

Which  are  mountains  of  rock  without 
water 

If  there  were  water  we  should  stop  and 
drink 

Amongst  the  rock  one  cannot  stop  or 
think 

Sweat  is  dry  and  feet  are  in  the  sand 

If  there  were  only  water  amongst  the 
rock 

Dead  mount  in  mouth  of  carious  teeth 
that  cannot  spit 

Here  one  can  neither  stand  nor  lie  nor  sit  340 

There  is  not  even  silence  in  the  moun¬ 
tains 

[41] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


But  dry  sterile  thunder  without  rain 
There  is  not  even  solitude  in  the  moun¬ 
tains 

But  red  sullen  faces  sneer  and  snarl 
From  doors  of  mudcracked  houses 

If  there  were  water 

And  no  rock 
If  there  were  rock 
And  also  water 
And  water 

A  spring  350 

A  pool  among  the  rock 

If  there  were  the  sound  of  water  only 

Not  the  cicada 

And  dry  grass  singing 

But  sound  of  water  over  a  rock 
[42] 


WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 

Where  the  hermit-thrush  sings  in  the 
pine  trees 

Drip  drop  drip  drop  drop  drop  drop 

But  there  is  no  water 

Who  is  the  third  who  walks  always  beside 
you? 

When  I  count,  there  are  only  you  and  I 
together  360 

But  when  I  look  ahead  up  the  white  road 
There  is  always  another  one  walking  be¬ 
side  you 

Gliding  wrapt  in  a  brown  mantle,  hooded 
I  do  not  know  whether  a  man  or  a  woman 
—  But  who  is  that  on  the  other  side  of 


you? 


[43] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


What  is  that  sound  high  in  the  air 
Murmur  of  maternal  lamentation 
Who  are  those  hooded  hordes  swarming 
Over  endless  plains,  stumbling  in  cracked 
earth 

Ringed  by  the  flat  horizon  only  370 

What  is  the  city  over  the  mountains 
Cracks  and  reforms  and  bursts  in  the  violet 
air 

Falling  towers 

Jerusalem  Athens  Alexandria 

Vienna  London 

Unreal 

A  woman  drew  her  long  black  hair  out 
tight 


[44] 


WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 


And  fiddled  whisper  music  on  those  strings 
And  bats  with  baby  faces  in  the  violet  light 
Whistled,  and  beat  their  wings  380 

And  crawled  head  downward  down  a 
blackened  wall 

And  upside  down  in  air  were  towers 
Tolling  reminiscent  bells,  that  kept  the 
hours 

And  voices  singing  out  of  empty  cisterns 
and  exhausted  wells. 

In  this  decayed  hole  among  the  mountains 
In  the  faint  moonlight,  the  grass  is  singing 
Over  the  tumbled  graves,  about  the  chapel 
There  is  the  empty  chapel,  only  the  wind’s 
home. 


[45] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


It  has  no  windows,  and  the  door  swings, 
Dry  bones  can  harm  no  one.  390 

Only  a  cock  stood  on  the  rooftree 
Co  co  rico  co  co  rico 
In  a  flash  of  lightning.  Then  a  damp 
gust 

Bringing  rain 

Ganga  was  sunken,  and  the  limp  leaves 

Waited  for  rain,  while  the  black  clouds 

Gathered  far  distant,  over  Himavant. 

The  jungle  crouched,  humped  in  silence. 

Then  spoke  the  thunder 

Da  400 

Datta:  what  have  we  given? 

My  friend,  blood  shaking  my  heart 

The  awful  daring  of  a  moment’s  surrender 
[46] 


WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 


Which  an  age  of  prudence  can  never 
retract 

By  this,  and  this  only,  we  have  existed 
Which  is  not  to  be  found  in  our  obituaries 
Or  in  memories  draped  by  the  beneficent 
spider 

Or  under  seals  broken  by  the  lean  solicitor 
In  our  empty  rooms 

Da  410 

Dayadhvam:  I  have  heard  the  key 
Turn  in  the  door  once  and  turn  once 
only 

We  think  of  the  key,  each  in  his  prison 
Thinking  of  the  key,  each  confirms  a 
prison 

Only  at  nightfall,  aetherial  rumours 
[47] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Revive  for  a  moment  a  broken  Coriolanus 
Da 

Damyata:  The  boat  responded 
Gaily,  to  the  hand  expert  with  sail  and 
oar 

The  sea  was  calm,  your  heart  would  have 
responded  420 

Gaily,  when  invited,  beating  obedient 
To  controlling  hands 


I  sat  upon  the  shore 
Fishing,  with  the  arid  plain  behind  me 
Shall  I  at  least  set  my  lands  in  order? 

London  Bridge  is  falling  down  falling 

down  falling  down 

[48] 


WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 


Poi  s’ascose  nel  foco  che  gli  affina 
Quanio  flam  ceu  chelidon  —  O  swallow 
swallow 

Le  Prince  <P Aquitaine  a  la  tour  abolie 
These  fragments  I  have  shored  against  my 
ruins  430 

Why  then  lie  fit  you.  Hieronymo’s  mad 
againe. 

Datta.  Dayadhvam.  Damyata. 

Shantih  shantih  shantih 


I  49] 


NOTES 


■ 


NOTES 


NOT  only  the  title,  but  the  plan  and  a 
good  deal  of  the  incidental  symbolism 
of  the  poem  were  suggested  by  Miss  Jessie  L. 
Weston’s  book  on  the  Grail  legend:  From 
Ritual  to  Romance  (Macmillan).  Indeed,  so 
deeply  am  I  indebted,  Miss  Weston’s  book  will 
elucidate  the  difficulties  of  the  poem  much 
better  than  my  notes  can  do  5  and  I  recom¬ 
mend  it  (apart  from  the  great  interest  of  the 
book  itself)  to  any  who  think  such  elucidation 
of  the  poem  worth  the  trouble.  To  another 
work  of  anthropology  I  am  indebted  in  general, 
one  which  has  influenced  our  generation  pro¬ 
foundly  5  I  mean  The  Golden  Bough ;  I  have 
used  especially  the  two  volumes  Atthis  Adonis 
Osiris .  Anyone  who  is  acquainted  with  these 
works  will  immediately  recognise  in  the  poem 
certain  references  to  vegetation  ceremonies. 
[53] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


I.  THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DEAD 

Line  20.  Cf.  Ezekiel  II,  i. 

23.  Cf.  Ecclesiastes  XII,  v. 

31.  V.  Tristan  und  Isolde ,  I,  verses  5-8. 

42.  Id.  Ill,  verse  24. 

46.  I  am  not  familiar  with  the  exact  consti¬ 
tution  of  the  Tarot  pack  of  cards,  from  which 
I  have  obviously  departed  to  suit  my  own  con¬ 
venience.  The  Hanged  Man,  a  member  of 
the  traditional  pack,  fits  my  purpose  in  two 
ways:  because  he  is  associated  in  my  mind  with 
the  Hanged  God  of  Frazer,  and  because  I 
associate  him  with  the  hooded  figure  in  the 
passage  of  the  disciples  to  Emmaus  in  Part  V. 
The  Phoenician  Sailor  and  the  Merchant  ap¬ 
pear  later  5  also  the  “crowds  of  people,”  and 
Death  by  Water  is  executed  in  Part  IV.  The 
Man  with  Three  Staves  (an  authentic  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  Tarot  pack)  I  associate,  quite  arbi¬ 
trarily,  with  the  Fisher  King  himself. 

60.  Cf.  Baudelaire: 

“Fourmillante  cite,  cite  pleine  de  reves, 

C  54 1 


NOTES 


“Ou  le  spectre  en  plein  jour  raccroche  le 
passant.” 

63.  Cf.  Inferno  III,  55-57: 

“si  lunga  tratta 
di  gente,  ch’io  non  avrei  mai  creduto 
che  morte  tanta  n’avesse  disfatta.” 

64.  Cf.  Inferno  IV,  25-27: 

“Quivi,  secondo  che  per  ascoltare, 

“non  avea  pianto,  ma’  che  di  sospiri, 

“che  l’aura  eterna  facevan  tremare.” 

68.  A  phenomenon  which  I  have  often 
noticed. 

74.  Cf.  the  Dirge  in  Webster’s  White  Devil . 

76.  V.  Baudelaire,  Preface  to  Fleurs  du  Mol. 


II.  A  GAME  OF  CHESS 

77.  Cf.  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  II,  ii,  1.  190. 
92.  Laquearia.  V.  Aeneidy  I,  726: 

dependent  lychni  laquearibus  aureis 
incensi,  et  noctem  flammis  funalia  vincunt. 
[55] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


98.  Sylvan  scene.  V.  Milton,  Paradise  Lost , 

IV,  140. 

99.  V.  Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  VI,  Phil¬ 
omela. 

100.  Cf.  Part  III  1.  204. 

1 15.  Cf.  Part  III  1.  195. 

1 1 8.  Cf.  Webster:  “Is  the  wind  in  that  door 
still?” 

126.  Cf.  Part  I  1.  37,  48. 

138.  Cf.  the  game  of  chess  in  Middleton’s 
Women  beware  Women. 


III.  THE  FIRE  SERMON 

176.  V.  Spenser,  Prothalamion. 

192.  Cf.  The  Tempest,  I,  ii. 

196.  Cf.  Day,  Parliament  of  Bees: 

“When  of  the  sudden,  listening,  you  shall  hear, 
“A  noise  of  horns  and  hunting,  which  shall 

bring 

“Actaeon  to  Diana  in  the  spring, 

“Where  all  shall  see  her  naked  skin  .  .  .” 

197.  Cf.  Marvell,  To  His  Coy  Mistress. 

[  56  ] 


NOTES 


199.  I  do  not  know  the  origin  of  the  ballad 
from  which  these  lines  are  taken  j  it  was  re¬ 
ported  to  me  from  Sydney,  Australia. 

202.  V.  Verlaine,  Parsifal . 

210.  The  currants  were  quoted  at  a  price 
Carriage  and  insurance  free  to  London”  5 
and  the  Bill  of  Lading  etc.  were  to  be  handed 
to  the  buyer  upon  payment  of  the  sight 
draft. 

218.  Tiresias,  although  a  mere  spectator 
and  not  indeed  a  “character,”  is  yet  the  most 
important  personage  in  the  poem,  uniting 
all  the  rest.  Just  as  the  one-eyed  merchant, 
seller  of  currants,  melts  into  the  Phoenician 
Sailor,  and  the  latter  is  not  wholly  distinct 
from  Ferdinand  Prince  of  Naples,  so  all  the 
women  are  one  woman,  and  the  two  sexes 
meet  in  Tiresias.  What  Tiresias  sees ,  in  fact, 
is  the  substance  of  the  poem.  The  whole 
passage  from  Ovid  is  of  great  anthropological 
interest: 

.  .  .  Cum  Iunone  iocos  et  maior  vestra 
profecto  est 


[57] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


Quam,  quae  contingit  maribus’,  dixisse, 
‘voluptas.’ 

Ilia  negatj  placuit  quae  sit  sententia  docti 
Quaerere  Tiresiae:  venus  huic  erat  utraque 
nota. 

Nam  duo  magnorum  viridi  coeuntia  silva 
Corpora  serpentum  baculi  violaverat  ictu 
Deque  viro  factus,  mirabile,  femina  septem 
Egerat  autumnos;  octavo  rursus  eosdem 
Vidit  et  ‘est  vestrae  si  tanta  potentia  plagae,* 
Dixit  ‘ut  auctoris  sortem  in  contraria  mutet, 
Nunc  quoque  vos  feriamP  percussis  anguibus 
isdem 

Forma  prior  rediit  genetivaque  venit  imago. 
Arbiter  hie  igitur  sumptus  de  lite  iocosa 
Dicta  Iovis  firmatj  gravius  Saturnia  iusto 
Nec  pro  materia  fertur  doluisse  suique 
Iudicis  aeterna  damnavit  lumina  nocte, 

At  pater  omnipotens  (neque  enim  licet  inrita 
cuiquam 

Facta  dei  fecisse  deo)  pro  lumine  adempto 
Scire  futura  dedit  poenamque  levavit  honore. 
221.  This  may  not  appear  as  exact  as 
[58] 


NOTES 


Sappho’s  lines,  but  I  had  in  mind  the  “long¬ 
shore”  or  “dory”  fisherman,  who  returns  at 
nightfall. 

253.  V.  Goldsmith,  the  song  in  The  Vicar 
of  W ake field, 

257.  V.  The  Tempest,  as  above. 

264.  The  interior  of  St.  Magnus  Martyr  is 
to  my  mind  one  of  the  finest  among  Wren’s 
interiors.  See  The  Proposed  Demolition  of 
Nineteen  City  Churches:  (P.  S.  King  &  Son 
Ltd.). 

266.  The  Song  of  the  (three)  Thames- 
daughters  begins  here.  From  line  292  to  306 
inclusive  they  speak  in  turn.  V.  Gotterdam- 
merung,  III,  i:  the  Rhinedaughters. 

279.  V.  Froude,  Elizabeth  Vol.  I,  ch.  iv, 
letter  of  De  Quadra  to  Philip  of  Spain: 

“In  the  afternoon  we  were  in  a  barge,  watch¬ 
ing  the  games  on  the  river.  (The  queen)  was 
alone  with  Lord  Robert  and  myself  on  the 
poop,  when  they  began  to  talk  nonsense,  and 
went  so  far  that  Lord  Robert  at  last  said,  as  I 
was  on  the  spot  there  was  no  reason  why  they 
should  not  be  married  if  the  queen  pleased.” 

[59] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


293.  Cf.  Purgatorio,  V.  133: 

“Ricorditi  di  me,  che  son  la  Piaj 
“Siena  mi  fe’,  disfecemi  Maremma.” 

307.  V.  St.  Augustine’s  Confessions:  “to 
Carthage  then  I  came,  where  a  cauldron  of 
unholy  loves  sang  all  about  mine  ears.” 

308.  The  complete  text  of  the  Buddha’s 
Fire  Sermon  (which  corresponds  in  importance 
to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount)  from  which 
these  words  are  taken,  will  be  found  translated 
in  the  late  Henry  Clarke  Warren’s  Buddhism 
in  Translation  (Harvard  Oriental  Series).  Mr. 
Warren  was  one  of  the  great  pioneers  of 
Buddhist  studies  in  the  Occident. 

312.  From  St.  Augustine’s  Confessions 
again.  The  collocation  of  these  two  representa¬ 
tives  of  eastern  and  western  asceticism,  as  the 
culmination  of  this  part  of  the  poem,  is  not  an 
accident. 


[60] 


NOTES 


y.  WHAT  THE  THUNDER  SAID 

In  the  first  part  of  Part  V  three  themes  are 
employed:  the  journey  to  Emmaus,  the  ap¬ 
proach  to  the  Chapel  Perilous  (see  Miss 
Weston’s  book)  and  the  present  decay  of  eastern 
Europe. 

357.  This  is  T urdus  aonalaschkae  fallasiiy 
the  hermit-thrush  which  I  have  heard  in 
Quebec  County.  Chapman  says  ( Handbook 
of  Birds  of  Eastern  North  America)  “it  is  most 
at  home  in  secluded  woodland  and  thickety 
retreats.  ...  Its  notes  are  not  remarkable 
for  variety  or  volume,  but  in  purity  and  sweet¬ 
ness  of  tone  and  exquisite  modulation  they  are 
unequaled.”  Its  “water-dripping  song”  is 
justly  celebrated. 

360.  The  following  lines  were  stimulated  by 
the  account  of  one  of  the  Antarctic  expeditions 
(I  forget  which,  but  I  think  one  of  Shackle- 
ton’s):  it  was  related  that  the  party  of  ex¬ 
plorers,  at  the  extremity  of  their  strength, 
[61] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


had  the  constant  delusion  that  there  was  one 
more  member  than  could  actually  be  counted. 

366-76.  Cf.  Hermann  Hesse,  Blick  ins 
Chaos:  “Schon  ist  halb  Europa,  schon  ist  zumin- 
dest  der  halbe  Osten  Europas  auf  dem  Wege 
zum  Chaos,  fahrt  betrunken  im  heiligem  Wahn 
am  Abgrund  entlang  und  singt  dazu,  singt  be¬ 
trunken  und  hymnisch  wie  Dmitri  Kara- 
masoff  sang.  Ueber  diese  Lieder  lacht  der 
Burger  beleidigt,  der  Heilige  und  Seher  hort 
sie  mit  Traiien.” 

401.  “Datta,  dayadfivam,  damyata”  (Give, 
sympathise,  control).  The  fable  of  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  the  Thunder  is  found  in  the  Brihada - 
r any  aka — Upanishad ,  5,  1.  A  translation  is 
found  in  Deussen’s  Sechzig  Upanishads  des 
Veda y  p.  489. 

407.  Cf.  Webster,  The  White  Devil,  V.  vi: 

“.  .  .  they’ll  remarry 

Ere  the  worm  pierce  your  winding-sheet,  ere 
the  spider 

Make  a  thin  curtain  for  your  epitaphs.” 

[  62  ] 


NOTES 


4 1 1 .  Cf .  Inferno ,  XXXI  11,46: 

“ed  io  sentii  chiavar  Puscio  di  sotto 
alPorribile  torre.” 

Also  F.  H.  Bradley,  A'p'pearance  and  Reality y 
p.  346. 

“My  external  sensations  are  no  less  private  to 
myself  than  are  my  thoughts  or  my  feelings. 
In  either  case  my  experience  falls  within  my 
own  circle,  a  circle  closed  on  the  outside  3  and, 
with  all  its  elements  alike,  every  sphere  is 
opaque  to  the  others  which  surround  it.  .  .  . 
In  brief,  regarded  as  an  existence  which  ap¬ 
pears  in  a  soul,  the  whole  world  for  each  is 
peculiar  and  private  to  that  soul.” 

424.  V.  Weston:  From  Ritual  to  Romance ; 
chapter  on  the  Fisher  King. 

427.  V.  Rurgatorioy  XXVI,  148. 

“  ‘Ara  vos  prec,  per  aquella  valor 
‘que  vos  guida  al  som  de  Pescalina, 
‘sovegna  vos  a  temps  de  ma  dolor.’ 

Poi  s’ascose  nel  foco  che  gli  affina.” 

[63] 


THE  WASTE  LAND 


428.  V.  Pervigilium  Veneris .  Cf.  Philomela 
in  Parts  II  and  III. 

429.  V.  Gerard  de  Nerval,  Sonnet  El 
Desdichado. 

431.  V.  Kyd’s  Spanish  Tragedy. 

433.  Shantih.  Repeated  as  here,  a  formal 
ending  to  an  Upanishad.  “The  Peace  which 
passeth  understanding”  is  a  feeble  translation 
of  the  content  of  this  word. 


[64] 


